The Need
by Books In the Blood
Summary: Sometimes the pain and loneliness is too much for Sherlock. Sometimes, he has to hurt himself to feel like he's alive. Trigger warning: self harm, cutting, rated M for such.


The need was there, screaming to be met. Loud, so loud….Sherlock couldn't think, he couldn't do anything when the need came to him. He wanted to resist, wanted to fight it; he always tried but he was never successful. It was like a loud drumming in his ears, a frantic impulse propelling you forward. Awful, painful…..it was so much easier to give in. It hurt to fight it; it was too strong. God, was easy to give in. It was wrong he knew; he would feel guilty about it later. But while he did it, it felt _so damn good….._

Now the excitement of it was added to the desperate need; it was wrong, so very wrong. _What would John think? It doesn't matter…..I have to do it. _It was the only thing that would still the loneliness and pain; it would consume him until he made the mark deep, until he felt the burn…..

Sherlock was now on his feet, stumbling toward his bedroom, rushing, hurrying. He wanted it….needed it. He shut the door behind him quickly, locking it for good measure. He ran to his closet, throwing items out as he dug for the box. It was in the back, tucked away in the small hole he'd made in the wall to hide things after John had become so nosey when looking for drugs. He didn't need John to find this as well; he'd been doing good not taking drugs but he couldn't give this up as well. There had to be some escape, some way to still the pain. There had to be…..

Sherlock found the concealed hole in the wall and dug inside for the box. He pulled it out, taking the socks out of the box and digging inside them for the small, concealed blades. His hands were shaking as he stood up and took them over to the bed, sitting down and leaning against the headboard. His heart was hammering in his chest and his breath caught in his chest as he looked at the glint of the blade in the light; soon it would be over. Soon the pain would stop as he watched the delicious red liquid run down his arm.

He stripped his dressing gown off and threw his t-shirt over his head, exposing his scared, ivory skin. He ran his fingers over the old track marks, deciding which to open again. Which pain would he rip open and expose anew to help heal the new pain? Some were deeper, some were faint. Each told a story, some more desperate than the others. Finally, Sherlock settled on a faint scar running down his left forearm; it was a lone scar, it had not yet been opened to the pain again.

Sherlock took the cool blade between his fingers, pressing the point to his skin. He dug into the delicate flesh, running it down the length of the old scar, exposing it again. A shudder went through Sherlock as he felt the sting of pain, followed by the sight of the dark crimson liquid begin to dot the crease of the cut and finally get heavy enough to run down his arm. He watched its slow descent, making it to his wrist; it hurt but the pain was wonderful. It stilled his mind and made the sadness disappear for a moment.

But it wasn't enough. _You're worthless…..you're pathetic. You're a sick freak. You need to suffer more. _

Sherlock put his blade back to the already bleeding cut and dug deeper. He screamed as the pain shot through his arm and made his heart skip a beat. Blood poured even freer from the cut, dripping from his arm and onto his pyjama pants. He whimpered at the anguish the deep cut caused. Finally, he was beginning to feel _alive. _

But he wasn't done yet; as scarlet lines made their way down his arm his finger felt a deep scar on his arm, one that had been opened and re-opened several times. He didn't think about it as he put the blade on it again, slicing into the tender skin, wincing and gasping in relief at the same time, blood dripping from it within seconds.

He was gasping for air as he watched the delicate lines of blood run along his arm, a contrast of deep red against pale white flesh. It was freeing, made his heart beat quickly almost as if excited. The smelled the scent of his own blood deep in his nostrils; before he thought about it, his lips were on the new cut, taking the blood into his mouth before it could run out. The taste of iron was strong but not unpleasant as it slid along his tongue and down his throat. _You are disgusting…..sick…..twisted…..you deserve this pain. _

One, two, three more cuts joined the previous two in quick succession. Soon he was a withering, pained mess but the beating of his heart ensured he was alive. Blood was splattered along his chest, his trousers, the blanket on his bed. His mind was quiet finally; the drumming was gone, the need had passed. It was truly quiet once again.

Sherlock could hear John calling for him as he entered the flat; Sherlock called out to him that he would be there shortly, taking pleasure in how calm and cool his voice sounded. He rose from the bed, grabbing a towel from the closet and cleaning the blood from his skin, burning pain hitting him as the towel touched the wounds anew. He grabbed the gauze from his bedside table and delicately wrapped it around his entire forearm after rubbing cold, delightful cream along the incisions. He changed he trousers, put his shirt back on, sliding his dressing gown back on. He opened the door and joined John in the sitting room; he gave him a smile and John was quick to discuss his day at the clinic. He listened with actual interest to the mundane details, his throbbing arm helping him focus on his flat mate. _Calm….finally calm….._


End file.
